


Fucking Perfect

by beetle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Post-Inception
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:30:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the inception_kink prompt: "They're in a new relationship and it's Saito's birthday. Arthur is still trying to figure out Saito's tastes, so he springs for a lavish hotel suite, champagne on ice, silk sheets, etc. Saito isn't expecting anything so he gets there late, and while Arthur is waiting he just hangs around in his underwear getting drunk. Saito was really hoping to spend a nice day together, maybe taking a walk in the park or getting some ice cream. He never gets to do stuff like that. So they compromise by going up to the top of the hotel and throwing shit off the roof."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine, but not yours, either.  
> Notes: Post-Inception by about a month, no spoilers.

In Arthur Drassos' opinion, the whole thing is, in two words:  _fucking perfect_.  
  
The sheets are silk, the champagne is of an impeccable vintage—and the very suite itself is the finest in the hotel, which is the finest hotel in New York, putting it in the running for the finest hotel in the world.  
  
(One other thing it is, and here Arthur’s done exhaustive research, not owned by Proclus Global or any of its subsidiaries.)  
  
Arthur, himself, is wearing nothing but the most expensive—yet tasteful . . . always tasteful—silk boxer briefs to be tailored on less than a week’s notice.  
  
He looks, if he does say so, himself, literally  _fucking perfect_. The optimal Arthur to be had.  
  
Feeling quite satisfied with life, the universe, and everything, Arthur, pours a few sips of champagne into a glass and tastes it.  
  
 _Fucking perfect_.  
  
Absolutely.  
  
Jiro’s going to love it. All of it. At least, Arthur  _hopes_  he will.  
  
Reclining on the bed in a seductive pose, he finishes the champagne and places the flute on the night table. He has exactly thirteen minutes to kill until Jiro arrives. And when he does, he’s going to receive the best birthday present he’s ever had. Arthur means to make sure of that.  
  


*

  
  
Three hours later, Arthur is laying in a drunken sprawl, seductiveness quite forgotten as he’s swilled the last of the thousand-dollar-a-bottle champagne.  
  
He glances blearily at the clock once more, thinking that if he had a dollar for every time he’s done so since eight o’clock, the champagne would have paid for itself.  
  
Which is completely besides the point—point being that the time is now eleven o’clock precisely.  
  
“Where the hell  _is_  he?” Arthur demands of the clock. Unsurprisingly, it offers neither answers nor sympathy. So he rolls onto his other side and grouses.  
  
Oh, he knows it’s entirely too likely that Jiro got caught in some urgent meeting and is too busy to call—it’s happened several times before, in the month-plus since they finally acknowledged their feelings for each other.  
  
But never on Jiro’s  _birthday_.  
  
Never on the day they’d both (supposedly) cleared their schedules and (also supposedly) made themselves completely unavailable to anyone but each other.  
  
 _Never_  on the night Arthur had decided they were going to finally— _finally_ —consummate this weird, awkward,  _powerful_  thing that’s been between them since before the Inception. Maybe since the first time, in a dream within a dream, they shared a glance at each other across a conference table. . . .  
  
Arthur sighs. Sure, there’d been plenty of right moments in the past few weeks to . . . seal the deal, so to speak. But those right moments had been hampered by business concerns (mostly Jiro’s), by the regrettable appearance of propriety and seemliness (also Jiro’s), and by any number of countless things that get between two people who want, more than just about anything, to lay down together and see what happens.  
  
Suddenly sling-shotted past irritation to sulkiness, and almost to tears—yes, Arthur’s  _that_  kind of drunk, which is why he imbibes only on special occasions—he means to roll onto his stomach (isn’t that the way he’d hoped to spend the evening, anyway? As well as on his back and on his knees?) and instead rolls right off the slippery bed. He hits the mousse-colored carpet with a thud and swears: “Goddamn sheets are tryin’ to kill me. Fucking perfect end to a fucking perfect evening.”  
  
He struggles into sitting position, leaning back against the night table. The cool handles press uncomfortably into his spine and he sighs again, feeling lonely and stood up. It’s just like prom night all over again, only he hadn’t pinned his hopes on something as stupid as prom, or Jody Slidell. Not really.  
  
But he’s discovering he’s pinning quite a bit on this thing with Jiro working out. Not just because Jiro’s a powerful man—which is very much Arthur’s  _type_ , and let’s make no bones about it. But if all Arthur wanted was a powerful man in his bed, he could simply have seduced Cobb (there’s power and there’s  _power_ , and though it’s less than tangible the latter is its own sort of sexy) or pulled an Eames, and set about the laughably easy task of seducing the likes of a Peter Browning.  
  
No, Arthur wants more than a powerful man. He wants a smart man. A visionary man. A man of big deeds and even bigger  _ideas_. He wants a man with a rare, inscrutable smile and wise, mysterious eyes. He wants a philosopher-king—a true Renaissance man. Jiro is all those things and more, and—  
  
Arthur simply  _wants_  him. With everything that he is, he wants to lay down with Jiro, and wake up with him. He wants everything around and between those things. He  _just wants_ —  
  
“Jiro . . . damnit, why don’t you at least take a break to  _text me_?” Arthur asks the ceiling. It, too, is less than forthcoming with answers or sympathy. “You know  _I_  won’t text  _you_  if I think you’re in the middle of somethin’. . . .  
  
“Ah, hell, maybe I should,” Arthur rolls to his knees—again, all that’s left is being on his stomach, and Arthur’s agenda is complete—then to his feet. The room gees and haws ominously. It also goes a little funny around the edges, and the color bleeds out of everything, just a little bit.  
  
Arthur Drassos is not just drunk . . . he’s drunk off his  _ass_.  
  
“My toned, tanned, un-fucked ass,” Arthur mutters, staggering just a bit as he steps forward. As usual, he’s left his Blackberry on the night table next to the clock. So it’s simply a matter of staggering around the bed and flopping down on it, then grabbing the phone.  
  
Like Jiro, Cobb, Ariadne, Jay, and his mother are on speed dial. And Arthur could just as easily drunk-text one of them to bitch about being stood up . . . but he knows that Cobb's immersed in making up for lost time with his children in Los Angeles. And Ariadne’s busy studying for finals back in Paris.  
  
And Arthur’s mother, while having come to terms with Arthur’s sexuality a long time ago, is still coming to terms with the fact that Arthur’s seeing a man who’s almost twenty years his senior. A man she has yet to meet, let alone get to know or approve of.  
  
And Jay, is currently deployed in Afghanistan (despite Arthur’s repeated offers to pull strings and get him reassigned) and probably in the middle of something both important and dangerous.  
  
So that leaves Jiro . . . Jiro, who’s probably in a meeting whose outcome will literally have world-changing consequences.  
  
 _At least he’d_ better _be_ , Arthur thinks grimly, swinging his legs up onto the bed and crossing his arms over his chest. He clutches the phone like a talisman, thinking that he might give Cobb a call, anyway. It’s eight o’clock in L.A. The kids are probably in bed, by now. . . .  
  
But instead of reaching out and touching Cobb—whom he really  _should_  call just to touch base, since it’s been two weeks, going on three—Arthur tosses the Blackberry back on the night table. He doesn't want to talk to anyone but Jiro, at the moment. And granted, he can call Jiro any time about anything, a fact stated firmly by none other than the man himself, he doesn’t really want to be that kind of boyfriend. At least not this early in the relationship, when he’s still less of a boyfriend and more of a . . . potential.  
  
So, drunk or not, lonely or not (unsettled or not) Arthur decides that he  _won’t_  call Jiro. Jiro will either  _call him_ , or he won’t. And if he doesn’t . . . Arthur will deal with the resulting fallout the way he deals with everything else life throws at him: with his usual mix of ruthless practicality and calm professionalism.  
  
Arthur decides to  _hang chilly_ , as he and Jay used to say.  
  
Then he rolls onto his stomach. For verisimilitude.  
  
In the meantime, he may as well get out his laptop and try and get some work done for the next job. If nothing else, it’ll take his mind off Jiro, and The Night That Isn’t To Be.  
  
But while waiting for the room to let up spinning, so that he can stand up without falling down, he passes out, face-down in the pillow—  
  


*

  
  
—and wakes up already rolling into sitting position and reaching for his pistol. He’s sliding the top drawer of the night table open, and his hand is closing around the cool metal of the Glock when he recognizes the quiet, but definitely unstealthy sounds of a door clicking shut, a lamp clicking on, the rustle of fabric, and a soft, relieved sigh, coming from the main room of the suite.  
  
Heaving his own relieved sigh, Arthur relaxes his tense muscles, but doesn’t let go of the gun—which is pointed at the entryway to the bedroom, and at about chest height on a man of average height. He’s  _pretty certain_  that his guest Jiro, but still.  
  
 _Better safe than sorry,_  is one of Arthur’s many mottos.  
  
Within seconds, Jiro’s standing in the entryway, a look of mild surprise crossing his saturnine face as he takes in the gun and Arthur’s grim face. He holds up his hands slowly, amusedly, palms facing outward.  
  
“Why did I think you would be asleep?” he asks fondly, as if his almost-lover pointing a rather large caliber pistol at him in welcome is merely cute, rather than disturbing. Arthur snorts, clicking the safety on and stowing the gun back in the night table. Jiro lowers his hands.  
  
“I  _was_  asleep.” He blinks, and is surprised to realize that his head doesn’t ache with the beginnings of an apocalyptic, or even respectable hangover. He pinches the bridge of his nose, all the same; the room has started spinning again. “What kept you? Meeting?”  
  
Jiro sighs apologetically, entering the room. He loosens his tie as he approaches the bed and Arthur. His jacket’s already gone, no doubt hung up in the main room. “Yes. A very important one that will hopefully mitigate the need for further meetings for the next few days.”  
  
“Well. I’m glad everything went hunky-dory for you,” Arthur says, meaning it, but not quite sounding like he does. Jiro sits next to him and takes his hand, kissing the palm. His eyes never leave Arthur’s, and somehow, that makes the spinning ease up noticeably.  
  
“You are as patient as you are lovely,” he murmurs, and Arthur snorts again, cupping Jiro’s faintly stubbled cheek and stroking Jiro’s cheek with his thumb.  
  
“You don’t have to sweet-talk me, babe. I understand that you’re an important man, and sometimes . . . important men have to take care of business first.” Arthur shrugs, trying on a half-smile that must look as limp and fake as it feels. “I was just hoping we could spend at least a _little_  time together last night. I even had a nice birthday present lined up for you.”  
  
They both glance unhappily at the clock. It’s just after four a.m on the day  _after_  Jiro’s forty-ninth birthday.  
  
“I am sorry.” Jiro’s hand covers Arthur’s, shifting it so he can kiss it again, his eyes falling shut as if that one kiss is all he’s ever wanted. It makes Arthur shiver and moan a little.  
  
“You don’t have to be.”  
  
“But I am, nonetheless.” Each word is followed by a dry, chaste, apologetic kiss on Arthur’s life-line. “I could barely concentrate on the matters at hand, last night. All I thought of was you.”  
  
“Oh . . . oh, Jiro,” Arthur breathes huskily, and dark eyes open, seeking out his own.  
  
“Yes, Arthur?” is the immediate reply, and those dark eyes flick down to Arthur’s mouth. Jiro leans in slowly. The room is spinning once more, but for an entirely different reason, now.  
  
“I’ve got dragon-breath,” Arthur warns, turning his face away a little. But not far enough, for Jiro’s lips are on his own, teasing them open with flickers and swipes of tongue. In short order Arthur’s arms wind around Jiro’s neck, and Jiro’s strong hands settle possessively on Arthur’s waist, his thumbs stroking-stroking-stroking.  
  
Arthur moans again and lies back, pulling Jiro with him. With a soft grunt, Jiro comes willingly, one knee sliding between Arthur’s thighs. His kisses wend their way down Arthur’s throat, turning into playful nips that make Arthur break out in goosebumps.  
  
“You know . . . the present I wanted to give you . . . is good for any day, year round. In fact—“ Arthur rolls them over so that he’s straddling Jiro (a move learned in basic training that the Army still, unfortunately, wouldn’t approve of him using toward this end) and pins his hands to the bed. “I  _really_  want to give it to you now,” he exhales, experimentally grinding his pelvis down into Jiro’s.  
  
They’re both on the same page.  
  
Jiro’s normally unreadable eyes flash and he frees his hands to place them on Arthur’s ass possessively. “Is this present—what is it you Americans say? ‘Bigger than a breadbox’?”  
  
Arthur grins, leaning down to nuzzle Jiro’s ear. Expensive, understated cologne ensnares his senses and those strong hands knead and squeeze. “Actually, it’s  _much_  smaller than that. And hotter, and wetter—“ Jiro is the one to shiver now, as Arthur licks his ear lobe then sits up. “—and much, much  _tighter_.”  
  
“Hmm . . . do tell. . . .” No mistaking the hunger that lights Jiro’s eyes, now.  
  
Arthur grins, shimmying down Jiro’s body, and stopping only when his face is at crotch-level. “I think I’d rather show,” he says lowly, nuzzling and mouthing along the prominent bulge distending Jiro’s fly. “God, how I’ve been wanting to show you.” And he unzips Jiro’s slacks.  
  
With his teeth.  
  


*

  
  
“We should spend all day in bed.”  
  
Jiro laughs and runs a finger along Arthur’s spine. Outside the bedroom’s large window, dawn is well under way. “A fine idea. But I was hoping we might partake of other activities, too. Activities that require us to leave this bed.”  
  
Arthur sits up a little, and leans in to kiss Jiro’s mouth lingeringly. “Mm, is that your genteel way of saying you wanna fuck me in the shower? Or maybe bend me over one of those sturdy tables out in the suite?”  
  
The finger dallying at the small of Arthur’s back dips lower, teasing and testing. Arthur closes his eyes and enjoys the sensation, the soreness, the absolute abandon of laying here letting his lover—at last!—explore him leisurely. Jiro smiles his usual inscrutable smile and Arthur just has to taste it. So he does, fucking his way into Jiro’s mouth and back onto Jiro’s fingers.  
  
“You are insatiable.”  
  
“Only with you.”  
  
Sure, experienced fingers find Arthur’s prostate—not for the first time this unexpectedly wonderful morning—and rub slow and hard. Arthur groans, cupping Jiro’s face in his hands.  
  
“So. If we’re not spending all day in bed, what  _are_  we doing?”  
  
Jiro grins, too, as unexpected a thing as him sprouting wings and flying around the room. “I would like to take you out on a date.”  
  
“Hmm . . . sounds promising.” Arthur grins back, thinking of The Russian Tea Room. Or hell, even one of those small, classy, expensive bistros that dot Manhattan like stars in the night sky. Someplace he and Jiro can eat and talk in relative seclusion and peace. “Where?”  
  
Jiro ‘s grin turns boyish. “Coldstone Creamery.”  
  
Surprised once more, Arthur blinks. Then blinks again, thinking he’s heard wrong.  
  
“Uh . . . that ice cream place in Times Square?”  
  
Nodding, Jiro hugs him close and kisses his lips lightly. “Yes. Did you know they sing a little song every time they are tipped?”  
  
Arthur represses a shudder. Jiro sounds positively jubilant. For Jiro, anyway. “No, I didn’t know that. Sounds . . . quirky.”  
  
Leaning back to look at him, Jiro frowns. “You do not wish to go for ice cream?”  
  
He’s too perceptive—a reader of people. Not as good as Eames, but much better than Arthur. Too good, by half, it would appear. “No, no, it’s not that I don’t wanna go, it’s just that. . . .”  
  
“You do not want to go,” Jiro repeats knowingly, and sighs. Then he chuckles. “I thought it might be a long-shot, as you Americans say.”  
  
“Baby, it’s your birthday—or was. We can do whatever you want.” Arthur smiles wryly. “We can spend the whole day eating ice cream and tipping the employees into singing.”  
  
“What I want is to spend the day enjoying your company.” Jiro pauses, searching Arthur’s eyes. “I had thought that after we had our ice cream, we could perhaps go to Central Park for a walk.”  
  
Arthur tries to keep his happy-face pasted on, but it feels instead like the startled expression of something caught in the headlights of a semi. “Central Park sounds great! It’s fall, so the leaves’ll be all sorts of pretty colors, and there’ll be plenty of people and dogs and . . .  _plants_. . . .”  
  
“You do not want to go to the park, either,” Jiro says, nodding as if he’s not terribly surprised. Arthur immediately feels bad.  
  
“Not that I don’t  _want_  to go . . . I just . . . have these allergies to the kind of dust and mold that, frankly,  _abound_  in wooded areas in the Fall.” Arthur bites his lip and the bullet. He would, he’s realizing, do any number of things he normally avoids, for Jiro. “But we could stop at a Duane Read and pick up some over the counter allergy medication that should do the trick—“  
  
“And if we did, would you enjoy the experience? Are you an ‘outdoors’ person?” Jiro asks shrewdly, searching Arthur’s eyes again. Arthur tries to hold that gaze, but winds up looking away. He’s never been a good liar. Especially not to those close to him.  
  
“Not even remotely. I’m a city boy. Have been all my life. My idea of camping involves bunking in a lawn chair on a fire escape or roof, and watching the people walking below.” Arthur sighs almost wistfully. “My brother Jay and I used to do that a lot when we were kids. Especially in the summer, when it was too hot to sleep inside.”  
  
“Tell me more.” Jiro’s gaze is now aimed at the ceiling, his fingers brushing Arthur’s prostate once more. Arthur moans softly, his breathing picking up until it’s nearly panting.  
  
“There’s, ah . . . not much more to tell . . . sometimes Jay and I would— _fuck_ —buy a bunch of balloons, fill ‘em up with water . . . wait on the roof like goddamn snipers, and . . .  _oh, Jiro_  . . . bomb the hell outta our friends and neighbors. We used to call it ‘aqua-nuking’— _Jesus, I wanna feel your cock inside me_. . . .”  
  
Smile-smile-smile at the ceiling. “You already have. Twice.”  
  
Arthur laughs breathlessly, squirming around Jiro’s exploring, teasing fingers. “Here’s another American saying for your collection: ‘Third time’s the charm.’”  
  
“Greedy,” Jiro says, but he seems obscurely pleased. “Arthur . . . I am not a machine. I may not be able to . . . pleasure you three times in a row without refractory time.”  
  
But he belies this statement by starting to tent out the stained silk sheets. Arthur throws them back and slowly, carefully, without dislodging Jiro’s fingers, straddles his hips.  
  
“You don’t fool me one bit, sweetheart. Your mouth says nuh-uh, but this—“ he reaches behind himself and gives Jiro’s cock a hard squeeze, swallowing a sharp, startled gasp with a deep kiss “—says  _mm-hmm_.” he bears down on Jiro’s fingers, still fucking himself back onto them. “Just lay back, stay hard, and let me do aaaaall the work.”  
  
“Perhaps . . . but I wish to hear more about this ‘aqua-nuking’ you and your brother used to do.” Jiro’s eyes meet Arthur’s, mildly inquiring. It’s the same look he wears in business meetings, which Arthur finds rather annoying at this particular moment. “I wish to know more about your childhood.”  
  
“Baby, don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t wanna talk about my brother or my childhood while you’re fingering my ass.” He pouts, bearing down on Jiro’s fingers again and rocking back and forth minutely. As far as hints go, this is a fairly obvious one. “Tell me knowing I’m still slick and ready for you doesn’t make you wanna plow me like the north forty.”  
  
Jiro looks confused, but still pleased. “What does ‘plow me like the north forty’ mean?”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Arthur leans down for another kiss. Jiro eagerly, if briefly, obliges him, his other hand sliding past Arthur’s waist to cup his ass possessively.  
  
“The ‘north forty’ refers to forty acres.”  _Kiss_. “Of land.”  _Lick._  “’Plowing’ the 'north forty' means preparing it for planting. But in this case—“  _Suck_. “It’s slang for 'fuck me hard and deep.'”  
  
“Ah,” Jiro murmurs, squeezing Arthur’s ass and removing his fingers so his other hand can join in the squeezing. “Plow you like the north forty,” he says as if tasting the phrase. Then he smiles against Arthur’s lips. “And if I would rather . . . make love to you, instead?”  
  
Arthur sighs again, experiencing a sudden burst of  _feeling_  for this man that’s scary in its complete besodttedness. “I—I wouldn’t say no to that.”  
  
Jiro hooks his right leg around Arthur’s left and rolls them over in a basic martial arts move Arthur could counter, but has absolutely no desire to. He simply looks up into Jiro’s eyes and lets contentedness wash over him. When Jiro kisses him, Arthur doesn’t surge up into it. Instead he relaxes into it. Wraps his arms around Jiro’s neck and his legs around Jiro’s waist. He wriggles and shimmies against the cock poking insistently past his balls.  
  
He takes a deep shuddering breath as Jiro’s kisses trail over chin and jaw, down to his throat, where his pulse beats wildly.  
  
“Make love to me,” Arthur exhales, one hand sliding up through Jiro’s soft hair. “Please?”  
  
“Of course,” Jiro says solemnly, each word a puff of cool air against Arthur’s heated throat. “Of course.”  
  
And afterwards, as they lay twined around each other, touching, kissing, and basking in an afterglow that’s as sweet as it is sensual, Arthur begins hesitantly, then with increasing confidence, to talk about his childhood, and the amusements thereof.  
  


*

  
  
“Arthur.”  
  
Stretching, yawning, and opening his eyes, Arthur surfaces from sleep with a smile. His body aches and hums pleasantly. “What’s up, Doc?”  
  
Jiro smiles gently at him. “I have a surprise for you. Come.” He holds out his hand. Arthur takes it, grinning.  
  
“I already have. Three times. But I’m willing to try for four.” He tries to pull Jiro back down to the bed, and that gentle smile turns ironic.  
  
“Perhaps later. For now, come with me.”  
  
So Arthur sits up to see a plush, black robe lying on the foot of the bed. It’s got his initials monogrammed on the breast: AQD. He looks up at Jiro. “You got me a bathrobe?”  
  
“No. Well, yes. But that is only part of the surprise.”  
  
“You know, in America, the birthday boy is the one who gets the presents and surprises,” Arthur notes, standing up and letting Jiro help him into the robe. It’s every bit as soft and warms as it looks, and when Jiro wraps it around him, he follows with a loose embrace that Arthur leans back into.  
  
“I prefer to surprise you.  _That_  is my present to myself,” Jiro says smugly, walking Arthur into the suite proper, through the main room. Past the bathroom and the small den.  
  
“You’re a strange man, but I like the way you th—whoa!“   
  
There, laid out on the large dining table, is what appears to be, on first, second, and third glances, Arthur’s favorite childhood breakfasts: big box of Marshmallow Oaties and a pitcher of milk, scrambled eggs and Canadian bacon, French toast . . . and a short stack of chocolate chip pancakes and a small glass container of maple syrup.  
  
“What in holy Hell?” Arthur asks, laughing, and tugging Jiro forward with him. Their legs tangle together but they somehow manage not to trip. When they get to the table, Arthur snags a piece of Canadian bacon and takes a bite. Then another and another, and thus the bacon goes.  
  
The next thing to go is a piece of French toast, and as he licks cinnamon from his lips, Arthur realizes he’s  _famished_.  
  
“Is everything . . . to your liking?” Jiro kisses his neck and nape.  
  
“It’s—amazing!” Arthur eyes the box of Marshmallow Oaties with something approaching lust. “ _Fucking perfect._ ”  
  
“Excellent.” Jiro belts Arthur’s robe and squeezes his waist. “Shall we dine?”  
  
Arthur tilts his head back until it’s resting on Jiro’s shoulder and he’s looking up into Jiro’s eyes. Wise and mysterious, indeed. “We shall.”  
  


*

  
  
The elevator dings, the doors whoosh open almost soundlessly, and Arthur lets himself be led out and down another carpeted corridor. Jiro’s hand is warm and sure on his right wrist.  
  
“We are almost there,” Jiro promises, and Arthur snorts, letting the fingers of his left hand trail the textured wallpaper of the hall. Every so often, his fingers encounter the smooth, polished wood of a door.  
  
“We’d better be. I really don’t like being blindfolded. Unless it’s in bed.”  
  
Jiro chuckles. “Perhaps later. If you behave.”  
  
“And if I don’t? Do I get a spanking?”  
  
Another chuckle. “I thought Americans found corporal punishment to be . . . passé.”  
  
“Not  _all_  Americans,” Arthur grins, wriggling his nose in an effort to see under the silk tie acting as his blindfold. Nothing but the red blur of the carpet and the intermittent charcoal-grey of Jiro’s slacks. “This American happens to like all sorts of things . . . provided they’re with the right person.”  
  
“Hmm.” Jiro pauses, and there’s the sound of a door opening. His hand slides down to clasp Arthur’s, linking their fingers. “Be careful. There are stairs.”  
  
“Oh, joy. A chance to break my neck,” Arthur mutters, edging one foot forward till his shoe bumps something implacable. He puts his foot on the first stair and feels with his free hand for the railing.  
  
“Ready?”  
  
Drumming his fingers on the rail, Arthur snorts again. “As I’ll ever be.” Then, as they ascend the stairs slowly: “This’d better be a damned good surprise.”  
  
“I think you will be pleased.” Jiro sounds smug again. They climb for a short while longer, then there’s the sound of another door opening, and bright light peeks under the blindfold. “Two more steps, Arthur.”  
  
Arthur dares to take them both in one large hop, colliding with Jiro, who steadies him by wrapping an arm around him. It feels good. Even better than the hot beat of the light on his face and the breeze that’s flirting around them.  
  
“We’re outside?”  
  
“Yes.” Jiro leads Arthur forward, their feet crunching on rough, almost pebbled ground. They circle around large objects, which Arthur knows of only because of the brief absences of light and heat on his face.  
  
“Jiro,” he finally says, amused, but exasperated. He stops dead, tugging on Jiro’s hand. “Sweetheart, where are we? Can’t I remove this damn tie, yet?”  
  
Jiro kisses Arthur’s hand, and ignores the first question. “A few moments longer.” He leads Arthur onward, around one more object—large enough to throw them into shade for a several seconds—then he stops, pulling Arthur close enough to smell cologne and something masculine and wonderful that he suspects is just  _Jiro_.  
  
Fingers tip his face up a bit, and Arthur finds himself being kissed to within an inch of his life. He surrenders to the kiss happily, barely noticing the fingers gently removing the tie. So when the kiss ends—regretfully, reluctantly—he opens his eyes to bright afternoon sunlight.  
  
He blinks until they adjust, then looks around.  
  
Not that there’s much to see except the tops of buildings and wide blue sky.  
  
“Motherfucker,” Arthur breathes, and laughs a little. “We’re on the roof of the hotel!”  
  
“Correct.”  
  
Squinting and smiling at his once more inscrutable lover, Arthur says: “I see. And  _why_ ,  _Saito-san_ , are we on the roof of the hotel?”  
  
Now, that smug little smile makes a reappearance, and Jiro takes a step to his left, revealing a large plastic container that appears to be filled with—  
  
“No way,” Arthur says, laughing again, and stepping toward the container hesitantly, as if it’s a mirage that might shimmer away at any second. But when, after two steps, it’s still there, he stops and looks at Jiro. “No.  _Way_.”  
  
“Yes, way.” Jiro nods, sweeping his hand out in a grand gesture, as if gifting Arthur with an entire city, and the heavens above it. Then he takes Arthur’s hand and walks him over to the container.  
  
Arthur stares into it as one mesmerized. The varied colors throb with vitality in the sunlight.  
  
“How—“ he begins, shaking his head in disbelief. “Why am I even asking how? You’re  _Jiro Saito_. If it can be done, you’re the man who can do it.”  
  
He kneels in front of the container, never minding his expensive twill slacks, and selects a bright blue globe, hefting it in his hand. There’s a satisfying slosh and squelch as he does so, and he grins up at Jiro. The grin takes twenty years off his age—has made him a child once more (and though he doesn’t know it, this very grin is the one that seals their fate as a couple, in Jiro’s mind).  
  
“You realize we can’t do this, right? That the hotel’d send security up to clap us both in irons and lead us off to the nut hatch?” But the breeze ruffles Arthur’s ungelled hair onto his forehead and into his excited eyes, taking even more years off his already boyish face. “You realize that this is completely insane?”  
  
Jiro’s smile becomes ever more cryptic. “If one is wealthy enough, insanity is viewed as mere eccentricity. And I am  _extremely_  wealthy.”  
  
“No shit. But that doesn’t mean that the owner of the hotel—“  
  
“Which would be me, as of 1:57 p.m. local time,” Jiro cuts in, and Arthur gapes for a moment . . . then rolls his eyes.  
  
“Jesus, you’re ridiculous with the buying everything for convenience,” he says irritably. “And so what? All it takes is one wet, pissed off person to call the cops—“  
  
“I have been assured by the hotel manager and the concierge that no one will disturb us for as long as we choose to . . . enjoy this particular past-time. Not even the authorities.” That smile warms into something that’s . . . tender. “Besides, is it not customary to give the birthday boy whatever he wishes?”  
  
Arthur nods once, almost unwillingly.  
  
“Then what I wish is to spend the rest of the afternoon aqua-nuking New York City with my lover.” The smile has gone, to be replaced by that solemn, searching look once more. “I was hoping that you would want to spend the afternoon doing the same.”  
  
“I—yeah. Of course. I’m up for anything as long as it’s you and me.” Blinking and blushing, Arthur hefts the blue water balloon again then offers it to Jiro, who takes it bemusedly, as if he’s never even seen, let alone held a water balloon before.  
  
 _He probably hasn’t,_  Arthur realizes. Then he selects another balloon from the container. A green one.  
  
“Here, help me drag this over to the ledge,” he says, taking one side of the container. Jiro instantly takes the other, and they lug the heavy thing to the dusty, waist-high ledge. Arthur leans on it and looks down. Below him, the city stretches out like a blanket of civilization, crawling with people too busy to look up out of the minutiae of their workaday lives, and see the summer sky beckoning above.  
  
Arthur has been, for the past fifteen years, one of those people. But now . . . now, the boy who’ll always live inside Arthur, no matter how deep down, is waking up and taking a look around. He’s wiping the sleep from his eyes and falling in love with  _possibilities_.   
  
“Death from above,” that boy says, whistling and bouncing the green balloon in his hand. He casts a playful look at Jiro. “Are you sure you wanna play aqua-nukes with me,  _Saito-san_? It’s not too late to get some ice cream, or go for a walk in the park. . . .”  
  
In reply, Jiro holds Arthur’s measuring eyes and lets his balloon drop over the ledge. His gaze challenges Arthur to do the same.  
  
Never one to back down from a challenge—something Jay, their mother, Dom, and Ariadne could attest to—Arthur glances over the ledge—a quick, look that misses almost nothing—and lets loose with his balloon.  
  
A few seconds later, there’s a startled screech from far below.  
  
“Ten points!” Arthur whoops—then ducks below the ledge pulling Jiro with him, just as he’d once upon a time pulled Jay down where the affronted eyes of their neighbors and friends couldn’t see them, giggling fit to burst.  
  
Of course, Jiro doesn’t giggle; he merely flashes that smug smile. But Arthur, his dignity cast aside, chortles maniacally, leaning over the container to steal a kiss.  
  
“You are happy.” It’s not quite a question.  
  
“Ecstatic.” Arthur sighs, cupping Jiro’s face in his hands and stroking his cheeks. “And you?”  
  
Jiro appears to choose his next words carefully . . . then discard them altogether, simply moving in for another kiss. Arthur is more than happy to give it to him. And several more while he’s at it.  
  
“The trick,” he finally whispers on Jiro’s lips, “is not to aim where the pedestrian  _is_ , but where they’re  _going to be_. That, my eccentric friend, is how the game is won.”  
  
“So noted. . . .”  
  
They kiss again, slow and sweet. It's  _fucking perfect._  
  
Then Arthur stands up and Jiro joins him. They stare at each other for a long while, till Arthur blushes again and looks away, a small secret smile curving his kiss-swollen lips, Jiro’s own unreadable smile returns.  
  
Arthur selects another balloon. Pink this time. They always seem to splat the best.  
  
“Alright,” he says briskly, clearing his throat and still blushing-blushing-blushing. For the first time in his life, he thinks he might be in falling in love. “Let’s ruin some hair-dos.”  
  
And they do.  
  
And it's  _fucking perfect_.  
  



	2. The Row

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the inception_kink prompt: 'Something totally mundane ruins their date night and they bicker about it all the way home. The arguing doesn't stop even as they get into the apartment and methodically start taking off their clothes. Then, sex. Just show me these two acting like an old married couple.' It went a little off the Reservation. Sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: As far as I know, Inception belongs to Nolan.  
> Notes: Post Inception by one year. A sequel to "Fucking Perfect," but can be read as a standalone.

  
“. . . and then you had the nerve to  _tip_  the little guttersnipe a hundred bucks!”  
  
Jiro Saito sighs as Arthur Drassos lets them into their penthouse. As usual Jiro's the one to flip on the light switch. Arthur has a tendency to walk around their home in the dark. But he has yet to bang his shin or trip over furniture, as far as Jiro knows.  
  
“And don’t you sigh like I’m being tiresome, either,” Arthur goes on, pausing to hang his dinner jacket on the coat-rack. When he turns to Jiro, he looks oddly naked. And rather pissed-off, as Americans like to say. “I have every right to be upset. Our waitress was  _flirting with you right in front of me_ , and not only did you not call her on it, but you fucking  _flirted back_! How in the hell do you think that makes me feel?”  
  
Jiro sighs again, removing and hanging up his own jacket. “Apparently it makes you quite angry.”  
  
Arthur glares at him for several uncomfortable moments, then his shoulders sag and his face closes up.  
  
“That’s it. I’m angry. Hole in one, sweetheart,” Arthur says, sounding weary and unhappy. Feeling weary and unhappy himself, but unwilling to let this . . . silliness fester between them, Jiro crosses the living room, stopping less than a foot away from Arthur, who doesn’t look at him. In fact, he crosses his arms obstinately and stares anywhere  _but_  at Jiro.  
  
“Arthur, my love,” Jiro starts, taking Arthur’s elbows in his hands and pulling him closer. Angry though he is, Arthur doesn’t object when Jiro leans in and kisses his neck. “I made you angry, and I am sorry.”  
  
Arthur laughs ruefully and shakes his head, taking a step back. “You don’t even know what to be sorry for. You’re just trying to keep the peace with a token apology. Isn’t that right?” Dark eyes search Jiro’s own and he tries on an ironic smile.  
  
“Then perhaps you could  _tell me_  what I am sorry for?”  
  
“Damnit, do  _not_  make me out to be the unreasonable one, here!” Arthur explodes, his cheeks a hectic red and his eyes shining. Jiro can feel the anger baking off him like heat . . . at least until Arthur looks away and crosses his arms again. With a near tangible rallying of will, he gets himself under his customary rigid control (control he rarely bothers with around Jiro anymore) and smiles mirthlessly. “You know what—never mind. This isn’t getting us anywhere. You don’t get it and I suppose I shouldn’t expect you to. I’m going to bed. I won’t wait up for you.”  
  
Before Arthur can do more than pull away, Jiro’s caught him by one arm and pulled him close again. Arthur glares into his eyes, jaw clenched so tight a vein at his temple is visibly throbbing.  
  
“Don’t you have a company to sink, or take over?”  
  
Jiro shakes his head. “I have nothing to do that is more important than you,” he replies simply, and Arthur’s glare is replaced by a startled, vulnerable sort of gape. Ever the shrewd opportunist, Jiro pulls Arthur against him—angry, he may be, but he’s hard enough for Jiro to feel in those form fitting, tailored slacks—and kisses him lightly.  
  
At first, Arthur doesn’t respond at all. Then he’s returning the kiss desperately, urgently, as his arms wind around Jiro’s neck. He tastes like dark chocolate and expensive champagne, and his body burns like a flame in Jiro’s arms.  
  
“I don’t wanna be angry with you, Jiro,” Arthur whispers between kisses, his arms panic-tight. But Jiro doesn’t mind at all.  
  
“Then don’t be.” He rests one hand on the curve of Arthur’s ass, and the other palms the back of Arthur’s neck, soothing away some of the tension there.  
  
Arthur moans, and it sounds half-wanton and half-frustrated. “It’s not that easy, babe, and you know it. Or you should.” He’s the one to sigh, this time. When he pulls out of Jiro’s arms yet again, his gaze is searching, once more.  
  
Then he stalks toward off toward the hall that leads to their bedroom. Halfway there, he stops, glances back at Jiro, and raises one straight, dark brow. Then he’s walking again unbuttoning his vest as he goes, his unspoken invitation to Jiro hanging about in the air like a question.  
  
 _Yes . . . oh, yes_ , is Jiro’s answer, and he follows Arthur down the hall, unbuttoning his own vest, and shirt as he goes.  
  
When he gets to their bedroom, the lights are, of course, out. He closes the door and feels for the switch to turn them on, but a hand covers his own.  
  
“Leave ‘em off,” Arthur commands gruffly. Then his hands are on Jiro’s chest, his lips on Jiro’s lips, kissing away any reply Jiro might have had. He still tastes like chocolate and champagne, and his tongue presses relentlessly into Jiro’s mouth.  
  
Jiro rests his hands on Arthur’s trim waist, then slips them back down to the tempting, muscular curve of Arthur’s ass to grip and squeeze. To  _possess_. The response he gets is a low moan and the aggressive, inviting press of hardness pushed against his thigh.  
  
Then Arthur’s breaking the kiss and his hands are sliding down Jiro’s chest, his thighs, stopping at mid-calf. Arthur’s nuzzles Jiro’s erection like an affection starved cat, his breath hot and humid even through Jiro’s own tailored slacks. Then he’s unbuckling Jiro’s belt, and unbuttoning and unzipping Jiro’s fly. Those long, talented fingers waist no time with taking Jiro out of his boxers, choosing instead to yank them down. The friction this causes makes Jiro moan, long and hungrily.  
  
“You like that?” Arthur murmurs, sounding smug and amused. Then he licks Jiro’s cock like it’s a lollipop, pausing to suck hard at the tip. “Tell me you  _love_  this.”  
  
“Yes. . . .”  
  
Another hard suck, then Arthur’s taking Jiro practically down his throat for a few fantastic moments before pulling off completely, resting his face against Jiro’s abdomen.  
  
“I want to see you,” Jiro chokes out, cupping Arthur’s face in his hand and brushing slightly swollen lips with his thumb. Thus, he feels the gust of cooler air when Arthur snorts. “I want very much to see you, Arthur.”  
  
“Yeah? Well, tough rocks, sweetheart. We do this with the lights out.” Then his lips are wrapped around Jiro’s cock again. As it slides between them, Arthur let’s his teeth scrape oh-so-delicately down the length, chuckling low in his throat when Jiro shivers, swears in Japanese, and nearly comes. A fact that he tells Arthur in a tight, strained voice.  
  
Arthur makes a sound around Jiro's cock that’s both approving and annoyed in equal measures. Whatever it is, Jiro nearly comes again. Then Arthur’s bracing himself on Jiro’s thighs and standing up. Expecting another kiss, Jiro turns his face down. What he gets is the top of Arthur’s head, a mouthful of gelled hair, and a hickey sucked onto his neck just below his ear . . . where even the collar of a starched shirt wouldn’t hide it.  
  
“Get undressed and lay down. I’ll get myself ready,” Arthur says tersely, moving away in the darkness. There’re two hollow  _chock_ s as he toes his shoes off, then the whisper of fine fabric as it slithers off of flesh and onto the floor—no doubt all done with Arthur’s customary grace and economy of movement. Jiro wants very much to see this. To have visual proof that his lover is here with him. He almost reaches for the light again, but doesn’t. He’s angered Arthur enough already this evening, without trying.  
  
Shrugging carelessly out of his own clothes—Arthur is the one who picks up their discarded suits and remembers to have those suits dry-cleaned—Jiro slowly, carefully makes his way to the bed. He sits quietly, scooting back just enough to lay down flat on his back, right arm pillowing his head. While he strokes himself, he can hear rooting around in their bathroom and the brief sound of the faucet running: Arthur’s getting a wet washcloth ready for afterwards.  
  
He always thinks of things like that—always plans ahead for them both.   
  
(“I like taking care of you, Saito-san,” Arthur’s been known to say, quite wryly—often when doing something that Jiro’s house staff usually does, such as take out their dry-cleaning, make their bed, or even cook. And he more than does those things, he does them  _well_. Neatly and efficiently, the way he steals. The way he  _kills_. “I like doing little things for you. Lord knows you can get the big things for yourself.”)  
  
Jiro’s cock is standing at attention, at this point, and he continues stroking it lazily, doing for himself one of the "little" things Arthur usually does for him. It feels good, but somehow not  _as_  good. And if he’s being honest, no touch he’s ever had has felt as good as Arthur’s. . . .  
  
Lost in thought, the next sound Jiro hears is right by the bed, digging around in his night table. It’s uncanny how quietly Arthur moves. Even now, but for the warm brush of skin, Arthur’s silent as he climbs astride Jiro’s hips.  
  
“You still hard for me?” he asks, even as Jiro’s cock nudges behind his balls.  
  
“Always.”  
  
Arthur grunts, and a minute later there’s a soft, stuttered inhalation and the nearly inaudible sound of flesh penetrating flesh.  
  
Jiro groans, picturing his lover,  _his Arthur_ , fingering himself in preparation for Jiro’s cock. Just watching this is more than enough to make Jiro come, and he finds himself rather glad that the lights are out.  
  
Only for a moment, though. More than anything, he wants to see the way Arthur bites his lip as he prepares himself . . . the beautiful arch of his back . . . the quiver of the muscles in his thighs as he bears down on his fingers . . . oh, Jiro  _wants_. . . .  
  
“ _Watashi no utsukushi-sa, watashi wa anata o mite mimashou, watashi no koi_.”  
  
“ _Nashi_.” Another stuttered inhalation, and the slight, slick,  _obscene_  squelching sound of Arthur’s fingers working inside himself. “ _No_ , Jiro. Now shut up about it.”  
  
Then Arthur’s positioning himself above Jiro, who tries to slide tender, worshipful hands up Arthur’s lean thighs. But his hands get smacked away. Moments later, Arthur’s got hold of Jiro’s cock and is guiding himself down onto it . . . slowly at first, till the initial ring of muscle is breached and the tip of Jiro’s cock is inside him. Then he sits hard and fast, causing Jiro to gasp and reflexively thrust up into Arthur’s tight, slick, clutching-fluttery heat.  
  
A strange, high keening noise fills the darkness, both pained and yearning and, unable to help himself, Jiro bucks up again, trying to get as deep as he can go in a single thrust.  
  
Arthur makes another strange sound, this one startlingly close to a whimper.  
  
Before he can think better of it—he tries, even when he’d rather not, to respect Arthur’s wishes—Jiro’s ignoring the demands of his libido and contorting himself toward where he’s pretty sure his bedside lamp is. His hand finds the switch without fumbling, and in less than a second a soft yellow glow banishes the darkness. He blinks and looks at Arthur, whose face is caught in an expression of surprise and pain. Then he’s looking away, swiping at the wetness on his cheeks and in his eyes. But it’s too late. Jiro’s seen, and with seeing comes understanding.  
  
He catches Arthur’s hands even though Arthur dodges him. He’s fully aware that if Arthur didn’t want his touch, his own hands would likely have been broken in three places already.  
  
“I have behaved dishonorably, and in doing so, I’ve hurt you,” he says, and Arthur smiles limply. He eases himself off Jiro’s cock and frees his hands, placing one at the small of his back and the other on Jiro’s chest, using it to balance himself.  
  
“More like  _I_  hurt me, Jiro. You figure I’d know by now: Big dick plus big rush equals  _big ow_. I swear, I’m fucking retar—“  
  
Jiro shakes his head once. “I am  _sorry_ , Arthur- _chan_. I humbly beg your pardon.”  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes and stretches his spine till it cracks. Then he starts to stroke his own wilting erection. “Look, it’s not a problem. Just gimme a minute to—“  
  
“Listen to me, Arthur.” Jiro looks steadily into eyes are still wet with tears. When Arthur’s quick to look away, Jiro's sudden understanding is confirmed. “ _I am sorry_.”  
  
Arthur stiffens, then risks a look at Jiro, his eyes startled, wary, and more vulnerable than Jiro’s ever seen them. So he says it again, and this time, Arthur takes a deep shuddering breath.  
  
“What’re you sorry  _for_ , Jiro? For pissing me off?” Arthur snorts. “Whatever. It happened, it’s over.”  
  
Jiro frowns, and knows that if he says the wrong thing, it will only hurt Arthur more, because  _yes_ , Arthur is  _hurt_. Has been since the restaurant.  
  
Maybe since before then. After all, how often over the past eight months has Arthur called Jiro a “shameless flirt” in a way that’s meant to be a jest, but is belied by the tight, unhappy smile that accompanies it? How long has Jiro been . . . dishonoring the man he claims to love?  
  
Since the beginning, perhaps.  
  
Finally, Jiro lets out a breath. “I am sorry for . . . dishonoring you by not firmly refusing the waitress’s advances. I merely thought it amusing that she should display her . . . interest when clearly I am already spoken for. When my love was sitting at the table with me.” He catches the hand stroking Arthur’s cock once more. Squeezes it gently, till Arthur meets his gaze again. “I did not realize that my actions were hurting you. And I dismissed your feelings quite out of hand, hurting you further. For that I am sorry.  _Watashi wa, gomen watashi no aidesu._ ”  
  
Arthur stares into his eyes long and hard. “Is it that you’re getting tired of me?”  
  
“ _Never_.”  
  
A small, sad smile. “Don’t forget—I’m a Pointman. I’ve researched you six days to Sunday. You’ve never so much as had a one-night stand with another man. You’ve had a wife, multiple mistresses, girlfriends out the yin-yang. But a boyfriend?” Arthur shakes his head. “You have to admit I’m a complete anomaly. A novelty that . . . maybe one day you’ll get tired of.”  
  
Jiro sits up and pulls Arthur into his arms, sighing as Arthur comes hesitantly, and remains stiff in his embrace. “You are not a novelty to me,” he whispers on Arthur’s temple, kissing it softly. “You are not an anomaly, either, as I have always been attracted to beauty, intelligence, and strength. I have never found those things as present in anyone as I have found them to be in you. How could I possibly grow tired of them, or of you?”  
  
Arthur’s face is warm and wet on Jiro’s shoulder. “How can you be sure you won’t?”  
  
Smiling a little, Jiro pulls back and looks Arthur in the eyes. “How can  _you_  be sure that you will not grow tired of  _me_?”  
  
A flash of annoyance crosses across Arthur’s face, there and gone before Jiro can be sure he saw it. “Because I just  _won’t_. You’re . . . not perfect, but you’re the perfect guy for me. Even if there were someone more perfect, I wouldn’t want him. He wouldn’t be  _you_.” He grimaces, but it turns into an unwilling grin. “There. You’ve turned me into a woman. Fucking spectacular. _Now_  I can be your pretty little girlfriend.”  
  
Chuckling, Jiro kisses Arthur’s lips. He still tastes a little like champagne and, more strongly, of Jiro. “You are my love, my lover, and my confidant. You are my best friend.”  
  
“And  _you’re_  a sweet-talker, did you know that?” Arthur smiles a little, and he doesn’t sound as unhappy as he had two minutes ago. There’s no hesitation this time, when Jiro lays them down, settling comfortably between Arthur’s legs. He takes a deep breath and returns Arthur’s smile. Since Arthur came into his life, Jiro’s done more smiling than he had in his whole life prior.  
  
“I will not . . . flirt shamelessly anymore.”  
  
Arthur’s smile wanes a little. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Jiro, just . . . please try not to do it in front of me. It kinda fucks with my head, and, well, it’s already fucked up enough, in there.”  
  
“I understand I have been disrespectful, Arthur- _chan_. Trust me: It will not happen again, whether you are present or not.” Jiro promises grimly. “Were you my wife, I would not have behaved so.”  
  
Now that smile is back, turning into the wry grin Jiro so loves. “Baby, if I was your wife, that slutty bitch’d be in the dirt, by now. Six feet of it.” Arthur murmurs, his lips twitching. But Jiro gets the feeling he’s only half-joking. “I’ve done worse things for less reason.”  
  
Jiro kisses Arthur’s sternum. “Competent help is at a premium, my love. No killing waitresses,” he says firmly.  
  
“I know, I know. I was just kidding.” Half-kidding, if that suddenly fierce look in his eyes is anything to go by. A distraction is in order. So Jiro leans down to apply careful teeth to Arthur’s right nipple. This never fails to render Arthur mostly speechless, and now is no exception. Arthur’s hands—the hands of a soldier, of a killer—cup Jiro’s face, one sliding around to the back of his head. Long, strong legs wrap around Jiro’s waist and draw him closer.  
  
“Wanna pick up where we left off, Saito- _san_?”  
  
“That would be  _most_  agreeable.” Jiro reapplies his teeth where the reapplying is good, nipping a bit more sharply than before. Arthur gasps and moans, his erection (which has made a valiant come-back) bobs, and paints Jiro’s stomach with pre-come. “This time I will, of course, prepare you properly.”  
  
“Of course,” Arthur says, sounding bemused. He frees one arm to feel around their bed for the tube of lubricant. When he finds it, he grins again. “A-ha!”  
  
Getting to his knees, Jiro takes the black tube— _Secret Sin_  is the brand name—and flips the cap open. He squirts a generous amount on two fingers, letting it warm while Arthur stares at him with naked hunger.  
  
“You are beautiful,” Jiro says softly, and for a moment, Arthur’s eyes go shiny again. Then he’s blinking and blushing.  
  
“Ah, go on.” But he’s smiling big and bright, his dimples out in force. Jiro’s breath catches briefly, and his heart beats faster.  
  
“And you are the only one I want.”  
  
Arthur searches his eyes once more, then that bright, boyish smile turns into something sultry and heated. He crooks his finger at Jiro and draws one leg up to his chest, giving Jiro a perfect, tantalizing view of the only place he ever wants to be anymore.  
  
“Like what you see?” Arthur’s fingering himself again, and just watching him is every bit as mind-blowing as Jiro had imagined. More so.  
  
“I do.” Jiro’s finishes coating his cock with lubricant then replaces Arthur’s fingers with his own. Arthur hisses and moans, his back arching, his lower lip caught between his teeth. He is . . .  _perfect_. “I like it  _very_  much.”  
  
“Well.” Arthur quirks an eyebrow and clenches meaningfully around Jiro’s fingers. “Show, don’t tell.”  
  
Jiro is more than happy to oblige.


End file.
